If Words Were Stones
by Mytay
Summary: A twist on an old adage we know is a lie – words can be stones thrown at you, and they can hurt. Sometimes you can lend truth to the lie that they don't. And other times you throw something back. Hard. Kurt through the years, with Burt and the gleeks.
1. Chapter 1

**If Words Were Stones**

**By:** Mytay

**Rating:** T – mature themes, like homophobia, and some offensive language.

**Summary:** A twist on an old adage we all know is a lie – words can be stones thrown at you, and they can hurt. But sometimes you can lend some truth to the lie that they don't. And other times . . . you throw something back. Hard.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own, nor claim to own, anything Glee related.

**Note: **I started writing this before Theatricality, and therefore, while it's very similar in theme, there won't be any mention of that episode.

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_Chapter 1_

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The first time Kurt hears it, he's maybe five; he's in a corner of the living room, playing half-heartedly with his toy trucks, wishing his mother had taken him with her to run errands, or that his dad was working in the garage today. Toy trucks are nowhere near as fun as the real ones are – and he should know, since one of his favourite things is to watch his father take them apart – but he also knows, maybe subconsciously, that if he went upstairs to play dress up with his favourite of his mother's silk shirts, his father would not be happy. His dad is sitting on the couch with a few of his friends and they're watching something boring on the TV – he thinks it might be football, but his five year old self only knows that it puts him to sleep.

(This is one of those memories that the older Kurt remembers with an almost scary clarity, even though a lot of what happened went completely over his head at the time.)

His Uncle Larry (who isn't really his uncle, but he co-owns the tire store/garage with his dad and is over often enough that Kurt thinks of him as one) is laughing like a donkey at something on the screen. His dad and the two others are too: Sam, who works at his dad's shop, and lets him play hide and seek in and around the cars, and Leo, another mechanic who sneaks Kurt lollipops when he's being punished for touching his dad's tools or pushing the button that makes the cars go up and down.

His father keeps one eye on him, even as he disappears into the kitchen to get more drinks. He comes back with a few more beers, a book and a box of crayons. Kurt immediately perks up, grinning up at his dad. His father grins back, ruffling his hair and going back to sit on the couch.

Kurt opens the colouring book to somewhere in the middle – he's going carefully in order, page by page – and starts selecting his crayons. It's a plain book, with images of children playing or doing school stuff or sleeping or eating dinner with their families, and Kurt loves to colour in the clothes with all different shades. Sometimes though, when he finds what they're wearing a little boring, he'll take his favourite black crayon, and change them. He likes that best and the colouring book is already more of Kurt's own designs than the original plain ones.

He's concentrating really hard, tongue between his teeth, on one of the mommies in the pictures – drawing on her his own mother's favourite dress – when Uncle Larry breaks into loud laughter. "God, did that kid ever mess up that play. Why did they bother trading him, when he plays like a girl – what a total fag."

Kurt can practically feel his father's change of mood. The silence from him is louder than the roaring crowds on the TV. Kurt looks up, and sees this funny look on his dad's face. It's this weird expression that he's too little to really understand, (the older Kurt understood later that it was a combination of hurt and anger) but it makes him stop colouring and pay attention to what's happening.

His father puts his beer down on the table, slowly and deliberately, and turns to Uncle Larry. "I would appreciate it if you didn't use that word around me – or around my kid."

Larry shoots Kurt a confused look, who only stares back with wide eyes, then turns to his friend. "What word? . . . Oh – well, it ain't nothing he isn't going to be hearing in school, and really, what's the harm?"

"I'll say what the harm is, Larry. He's my boy and I don't need him learning those kinds of words."

His voice is calm and not really angry, but Kurt is really good at telling when his dad is _starting_ to get angry, so he considers leaving the room or calling for his mother, but he remembers she's gone out. Kurt freezes in the corner. He's never actually seen grown ups fight before – when his parents disagree, they usually make sure Kurt's safe in his room before going to their own bedroom and closing the door. It makes Kurt nervous and he _really_ wants his mommy.

But nothing happens – Uncle Larry just shrugs and goes back to enjoying himself. His dad gets up to walk over to him and kneels on the floor, looking at the colouring book. Kurt shows him his new picture. "It's mommy's pretty dress."

His dad nods, and swallows hard. "That's great, Kurt, it looks just as nice as the real one."

Suddenly, Kurt's being picked up, his book and crayons clutched in one large hand, while his father holds him close with his other arm. Kurt automatically wraps his arms around his dad, laying his head on his shoulder, feeling like maybe his dad needs a hug though he doesn't know exactly why.

His father tells his friends to enjoy the game, that he's going to sit with Kurt in the backyard for a bit, maybe toss a ball around or something. Kurt hides his face in father's neck – he doesn't actually like throwing the baseball around, but he'll do it, he always does, because he likes spending time with his dad.

But when they get out to the backyard, his father just sits him at the picnic table and lets him keep drawing and colouring, not saying anything, just drinking his beer next to him and watching the sun set.

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Kurt is seven the second time he hears it, and it's directed at Jack Carlson, a little boy with long blonde ringlets that Kurt had been trying to braid during recess, but failed at miserably. He settles for two pigtails and giggles when Jack flips them over his shoulder, imitating his 'dorky older sister'. He really likes Jack – he gets these butterflies in his tummy whenever the other boy laughs with him.

Two older boys walk over from the basketball court and stare down at them. Kurt blinks back, not sure why they're bothering – the older kids are suppose to stick to their side of the playground at recess and it's big trouble for them if they don't.

"Dude, you think you could act any more gay?" one of them jeers and Kurt bristles, because he knows he's just been insulted, even if he doesn't know how.

"Go away before I call a teacher over," he says haughtily. "I don't care about being a tattle-tale – I'll get you in trouble, just watch me!"

The other boy gives him a smirk. "Go ahead, wuss, you and the little fag here will get what's coming to you!"

They walk away now, snorting and pointing, and Jack, who Kurt had momentarily forgotten about, is frantically pulling the pigtails out of his hair. Kurt watches him do it, without saying anything, and they both walk as far away from the basketball court as possible.

Later that day, when he's home, he asks his mother what the words 'gay' and 'fag' mean. His mother freezes in the middle of making him a sandwich.

He waits patiently, comfortable and unconcerned about it now – just curious mostly. He kicks his legs as he sits at the table, sipping his orange juice.

"Kurt," she says finally, "Gay is just something someone is – and some people think it's a bad thing, but I promise you, it isn't. Just like believing in a different God or having different coloured skin aren't bad things – they just _are_. That other word . . ." She looks angry for half a second, barely long enough for Kurt to notice, before smiling softly, and reaching out to run her fingers through his hair. "I never want to hear you saying it, okay, baby? It's like all the other naughty words – there's no dessert and no TV, if I ever hear you using it. And if someone ever calls you or one of your friends that, I want to know about it, all right?"

Kurt nods and files away the information, and then promptly forgets all about it when his mother places his peanut butter and jelly with bananas in front of him. His father comes home a couple of hours later and they all sit down to dinner. Kurt rattles off his day (focusing on the part where his music teacher had said that Kurt had the best voice in the whole _grade_!) without even thinking to mention what happened with Jack – as far as he's concerned, it's the last he'll ever hear of it.

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The third time, he's ten and it's important, because it's the first time the word is directed at him.

It had been more than two years since his mother died and some days he still felt like crying in bed, never getting up and just laying there until the sun's gone back down again.

He was up at five in the morning – he'd been restless with nightmares most of the night, and they had been so intense and freaky that he almost screamed when his eyes finally snapped open. He was dizzy and still half asleep, not knowing where he was and whether the monsters were waiting in the shadows, and his first instinct had been to call out to his mother.

"Mommy," had just left his throat, a rough whisper, when he remembered that she wouldn't be coming to cuddle him and save him from the monsters in his head – and suddenly the idea of it choked him and it hurt all over again, just like on the day she . . . left.

He cried until the tears wouldn't come anymore and his head throbbed. By that point it was six in the morning, and he just didn't want to try and sleep – he didn't want anything but his mother, and it ached deep in his chest, like he'd been running forever, running for two years with no stop or break in-between.

Kurt slid off his bed and underneath it, where he kept a box with a few things he'd taken from his mother's room to keep close. He opened it, wishing he could capture the smell that lurked in the dresser in his parents' room. He had a silk shirt of hers – blue with dark green buttons – and all the birthday cards she'd made for him, and a few flowers he'd picked for her, which she had dried and pressed into books, and her favourite light bluish-green nail polish.

He held the small bottle for a moment before twisting it open incredibly slowly and cautiously, the strong, unpleasant smell hitting his nostrils. But it made him smile, because he remembered watching his mother paint her nails and how he would beg to have his painted too. She would laugh, shake her head, but once she was done, she would let him pick one toenail on each of his little feet, and paint those for him. He would always pick his two big toes.

This time, he painted all his toenails, and all his fingernails, blowing carefully on them as he did, and something in the action of brushing the colour on with smooth and steady precision soothed him. By the time he was finished, he was calm again.

His father took one look at his nails at the breakfast table a couple of hours later, and raised both his eyebrows, eyes widening a bit. But he didn't say anything other than, "Pass me the orange juice, kiddo."

Kurt loved his dad.

He went to school, in a perfectly matching pair of jeans and t-shirt from a designer that his mother had loved, and everything was okay, because his father was the coolest dad ever, and he was wrapped in his mother's favourite _everything_ and looking really good. It made him feel . . . awesome. He looked down at his nails, smiling as the colour glinted in the morning light.

But later in the schoolyard, he wished his father had said something. The junior high was right next to the elementary school, and so the older kids were always hanging around before class started. No sooner did he arrive at the school yard, but Craig Tanner – the same boy who'd been teasing him since he was seven – pointed at him, and said in a booming voice, "Check out the fag, guys – he's actually wearing _nail polish_!"

There was loud laughter from the ranks, and more use of the word his mother had so long ago explained was something horrible that should never be said. He tried to shrug it off and give them nothing, no reaction . . . but the thought of his mother . . . of his mother not being at home to get angry over this insult . . . it made his eyes water and the boys laugh even harder.

No one spoke to Kurt all day, even people who were sort of his friends. Jack had moved away when he was nine – something that had barely registered on Kurt's radar since he was still living in a nightmare world without his mom, and nothing else seemed to matter. He didn't have any real friends like the other kids did – he'd started being very quiet after his mother died – but he did have a few who didn't mind his long silences, or his sparkly running shoes that he'd poured silver glitter all over to make more interesting. (He couldn't wear his pretty and sensible heels to school – he hadn't found the right clothes to match.) Everyone avoided looking at him, sitting near him or talking to him, as if he was diseased. Even Mrs. Simmons, the music teacher, treated him differently – she didn't even try to get him to sing during their music class, even though she'd been trying every single day for the past two years.

Kurt went straight to his father after school, and cried his eyes out in his lap – he was a mess of confusion, and hurt, and anger, and he _wanted his mommy_.

His father just kept whispering into his hair that Kurt was the greatest kid in the whole world – that he was the best son a father could ask for – and nothing that anybody said would ever change that. He told Kurt that his mother had loved him so much, that he still missed her too, but Kurt just had to keep being strong, being himself, because that's what she would have wanted.

Later that night, after some chocolate ice cream and a promise made for a weekend to be spent watching _The Music Man_ and _Guys and Dolls_, his dad came into the room to tuck him in and kiss him. When he pulled back from pressing that kiss to Kurt's forehead, Kurt saw, sitting on his nightstand, a brand new bottle of clear nail polish.

A part of him wanted to cry again, because it was his _mother's_ nail polish that was the best medicine he'd found for that ache deep in his chest . . . but a bigger part of him felt so much love for his father that he promised to be an even better son, right then and there, because his father deserved it.

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**Author's Note: **Right, so this was originally intended to be a lengthy one-shot, but it got a little _too _lengthy, so I've spilt it into three parts. It makes it easier for me to proofread a section at a time, and then post. This type of fic has been done before, I know, and I apologize if this specific topic, in this particular style, has already been done in this fandom, it was not my intention to imitate - I got inspired, I wrote, and this is what came out. The next part I'll have up sometime within the next day or two, the last part I'll probably post a couple of days after that.

Thanks again to everyone who's made it to the bottom of this page.

And for those who may not know to which old adage I refer: _"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."_


	2. Chapter 2

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_Chapter 2_

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The last time he actually registered the word, the last time it actually hurt before settling in the back of his mind as something numb and without meaning, was the first month of high school.

He was flat out determined that he would make these the best four years of his life. He would try to blend in as much as he could, but still be utterly fabulous at the same time. He had decked himself out in some Armani jeans – and they looked amazing on him – but he'd toned down the look with a plain t-shirt and plaid combo. And clear nail polish on his impeccably manicured nails. There were no sparkly shoes or too obviously coordinated outfit. He felt good with no one giving him a second look, or sneering at him.

He walked with his head held high. It was just as he reached his locker that he got body checked into it so hard that the air was knocked out of him. He whipped around, seeing the bane of his existence, the thrice-damned Craig Tanner, sneering at him. "God, Hummel, I almost didn't recognize you – thought you were just another freshman."

"You randomly body check people _before_ even making sure they're someone you hate?" Kurt asked incredulously. "How haven't you been arrested yet? Or neutered?"

Craig ignored Kurt's comeback, his superior grin nearly boyish and it made Kurt want to gag. "I almost wish I wasn't a senior so I could keep right on making the rest of your life a living hell, bitch – but my schedule is pretty busy this year, and there's a football scholarship waiting for me . . . but don't worry, I'll pass it on to the next generation." He gave him an extra shove for good measure before walking away.

Kurt ignored his threats and just kept right on with the rest of his day, enjoying his relative anonymity, and trying to scope out a decent group of friends. A lot of the kids he recognized from junior high, and they already knew all about him – mostly that he was a bully magnet, so it was better for their safety if they gave him a wide berth. But he did get into a few interesting conversations with people who didn't know him that way, particularly with a fairly decently dressed girl named Mercedes, who immediately recognized his jeans and gushed about them, and thus, becoming a favourite with him.

The next day he would've been late, if his father hadn't offered to drop him off, and he was hurriedly making his way across the parking lot when a hand clamped onto his shoulder. "Not so fast, geek."

He was forcibly turned around to see a legion of jocks, smirking and grinning down at him. The one who had him gripped tight, he looked up to see, had a mohawk and an almost kind smile. "You're lucky – you're my first ever dumpster toss. You get to be my initiation into the ranks of coolness. Take it like a man, loser, this is the closest you'll ever get to popularity."

Before he could say anything in his defense, he was hustled over and tossed head first into the dumpster.

Even that rather depressing turn of events didn't quite put a damper on his spirits – especially when Mercedes and some random, stuttering Goth chick helped him out and walked him to the bathroom, assisting with the clean up. They explained the way things worked in the school – the dumpster, the slushies – and Kurt started packing an extra change of clothes. His first week closed out with only one more dumpster toss and one slushie facial.

But he had Mercedes and Tina, and a boy in a wheelchair named Artie to hang with, and they were pretty awesome, therefore, life was good. It was his second week in, and they were sitting beneath the bleachers during lunch; Mercedes started singing an R&B song that Kurt only knew the chorus to, but he was more focused on her fantastic voice. He almost fell over when Tina and Artie joined in. Kurt marveled at the vocal talent around him – and then took a chance, opening his mouth to sing, basking in it. He'd rarely sung outside of his house since his mother died. He could feel a glow coming on when, after lavishing well-deserved compliments on his fellow performers, they returned the favour even more enthusiastically.

Another day, Mercedes came over and went absolutely nuts over his bachelor pad basement, and bug eyed over his walk-in closet of designer heaven.

She asked why he didn't wear any of his more spectacular clothes to school, and he explained his desire to fit in. She had nodded, understanding, and not said anything more on the matter. They bonded over music and fashion, and Kurt had never been so thrilled to have a friend, to have a _group_ of friends.

He got body checked into lockers – mostly by Puck the Mohawk, Tanner's protégé, it seemed – and developed a crush on Puck's adorable best friend, Finn Hudson. Finn made sure that his favourite messenger bag didn't also end up in the dumpster with him, and ensured that the random trips and shoves in the hallways weren't bad enough to cause bruises. Kurt didn't do anything about his feelings – yet – because he was well aware of how this aspect of himself would be received at McKinley High.

Kurt had always known he was different, and learned to accept it – he had figured out his sexuality by the time he was eleven and understood enough about the definition of the term 'gay' to know that it applied to him. However, he was terrified to ever say anything out loud, not because he was ashamed, but because this town just was _not_ the place to do it. Then there was his father . . . his father had dealt with enough in his life – having a son who was . . . Kurt loved him so much, and he was scared to lose him – so he was content to be in the closet, he really was. And high school was actually turning out to be okay. He was getting into the flow of things by the third week.

Then it happened.

He had been at ease with being considered a geek – after all, more than half of the school seemed to fall into this category, or at least some variation of, and he thanked _God_ he was not like that Jewish kid with the crazy curly hair who was so beyond loser it made Kurt cringe on his behalf – but when that word finally came out of some random hockey jock's mouth, Kurt felt it stab deep down.

He had been in the bathroom, fixing his hair after cleaning up from yet another slushie, when a hockey jock slid out from a stall and stared at him for a minute. Kurt tensed, not sure what was going on until the guy rolled his eyes and grimaced. "Tanner was right – you are a complete fag, aren't you? Trying to hide it but, shit, that voice? The constant fixing of your hair? Man, why not just be a girl and get it over with! And don't use the bathroom at the same time as me."

He left and Kurt sagged against the sink, eyes shutting tightly to stem back the tears. It was pathetic and stupid, but there it was. One word had done what half a dozen slushie facials and dumpster tosses couldn't.

He'd be the resident 'fag' for the rest of his four years. As far as he knew, no one else in the school had that distinction – and the fact that it was true . . .

Kurt walked around in a daze the rest of the school day. When he got home, he said hardly more than two words to his father, who was home early from the shop. His dad eyed him closely, but Kurt could read his dad like his top five favourite issues of Vogue – with barely a glance and mostly off by heart. His father had decided on the oft used 'wait and see if he comes to me' strategy, which Kurt was endlessly grateful for. He trudged upstairs to lie down in front of his mother's dresser, all the drawers pulled out. He splayed out on the floor, hands flat at his sides and fingers curling into the soft rug. Kurt stared at the ceiling, focusing on his favourite water spot that was vaguely shaped like a flower.

He drifted, falling in and out of sleep, imagining his mother stroking his hair, telling him about how his father made the best pickle and ice cream sandwiches ever while she had been pregnant with Kurt. Then she would be singing _Wouldn't It Be Lovely_ softly, pausing after the _'someone's 'ead restin' on my knee'_ verse to kiss his forehead, and teasing him about his 'every guy' look, that just so wasn't him . . . Kurt sat bolt upright.

He marched back down to his father, who was reading the sport's section of the newspaper in the kitchen, and slammed the car keys down on the table. "Dad – I really need you to take me shopping."

His father blinked up at him. "You've used up your credit limit for the month. Why not give it a rest for the next week and a half?"

Kurt inhaled deeply. "It's not about a new outfit – it's about a new outlook. I need me some retail therapy, stat." His father kept right on staring at him, without flinching. Kurt sagged a little. "Please, dad, I just . . . I really, really need this."

His father must have read the sincere yearning in his face, and connected this request with his mood from earlier, because he picked up the car keys with a heavy sigh. "Fine, but we are not driving all the way to Columbus – you'll just have to settle for that store near –"

"Fine, perfect," Kurt readily agreed, slipping on his shoes. "You're the best, dad."

Burt sighed again. "Yeah, yeah."

After a whirlwind of buying clothes that made his father's eyes nearly fall out of his head, Kurt felt a strange sort of confidence settle into his bones. He was still nervous and hurting from the hateful label that had been placed on him, but another, bitchier side of him was beginning to take over, cackling gleefully – _they want a fag? I'll show them a fag. With a matching bag._

The real Kurt Hummel, ladies and gentlemen, was a closet diva and he was damn proud of it, even if he had been scared to show it.

Well, _no more_.

This school, this _town_, was just going to have to cope with having such utter fabulousness in its midst.

So when he walked into school with his favourite Marc Jacobs jacket, light blue scarf tied artfully over a pressed white collared shirt, vest, his tightest pair of jeans, kick ass black boots and a _matching_ messenger bag, he had never felt better about himself in his life. There was some pointing, some jeering and yes, some name-calling, but he glided right past them all, and came to a halt in front of Mercedes. She had been watching him approach with increasing surprise and awe.

He twirled in front of her. "Well, Ms. Jones – your verdict, please?"

Mercedes adopted an evaluating expression for all of a moment before cracking a wide grin. "Damn, Kurt – you belong on a catwalk somewhere! That is some hot stuff you got going on."

He grinned back before linking their arms together. "Just wait 'til you see the white suit I bought – and remember those Alexander McQueen sweaters you were drooling over? Totally wearing one of those this Friday. In fact, bring as much of your closet as you can over on Thursday – we can blast some Beyoncé and pick each other's outfits for the next week."

He walked with his best girl on his arm and ignored any threats or foul words hissed his way. He was sick of trying to blend in – this was him, and he was not going to apologize for it. Ever.

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It's his sophomore year and he's lost count of the number of times he's had the f-word thrown at him by this point, but when his father looks at him with wide, angry and hurt eyes, voice cracking when he tells him that someone phoned to tell him his 'son is a fag', Kurt's numb to the word, but not to the open worry and pain on his father's face.

And when his dad demands that he always do his best, regardless of how much this clearly bothers him, regardless of the fact that he's scared out of his mind that someone will take it beyond phone calls, Kurt remembers the promise he made when he was ten, and it takes priority over the one he made his first month in high school – his family means a whole lot more to him than his pride.

So even though it rips him apart on the inside, he throws the note, throws the whole audition, keeps back the tears, and keeps on walking with his head held high.

When his father tells him that he's everything his mother was – strong and fierce like her, Kurt knows that he did the right thing.

Later, covered in grease and oil (his hair probably a mess to his great inner pain), he's sitting with his dad in the garage's office, sipping from a bottle of water, and his eyes zero in on a picture of opening day – and there's Uncle Larry, smiling, with his arm thrown around his father's shoulders.

Before he can stop himself, he asks, "Why did Uncle Larry give up his co-ownership of the garage?"

It's a random question, and the older man chokes on his own water. "What? Where the hell did that . . ." He catches Kurt still looking at the picture, and his face looks wearied for a second before switching to impassive. "Oh. Right."

There's a long silence. Kurt figures it out before he says anything, but a part of him can't believe his father actually did it for him.

"He and I had very different points of view on certain things," is his dad's explanation. "And he was the one who decided to leave – I didn't force him out or anything."

Kurt nods, staring down at his lap. "He disagreed about . . . me, right?"

His dad doesn't answer, just finishes off his water and stands up. "Let's get home – I want to catch a game before I head to bed."

"Dad –" Kurt bites off the rest of his sentence, not sure what he wants to say, because there's too much going on inside his head. He wants to tell his father that everything's going to be fine – that this wasn't a soul shattering experience. That he'd get over it. He wants to thank his dad for everything else he's done over the years. But he can't find the words, and he isn't even sure if that's really it – if that's what he's feeling right now between the boundless gratitude, the lingering sadness and hurt, the frustration and the thought that things might not actually be okay. _God, being a teenager sucks_.

"Kurt, quit worrying about things that are long over and done with. Larry's in the past, and he's been there for a while now. Now, c'mon – I wanna get in a shower before my game starts."

Kurt stands, tossing his water bottle in a recycling bin as he follows, but now it's his father who's hesitating, standing in the doorway, fiddling with his baseball cap.

"Kurt, when you said that . . . that you get that all the time –"

"Dad," Kurt cuts in, putting a hand on his father's forearm. "Dad, please, it's all right. It's in the past, like you said."

"No, no it isn't, because we're talking about _all the time_ – we're talking about today and tomorrow." He rubs at his face with one hand. "I can't . . . I want to protect you from all those assholes, Kurt –"

"You do, Dad, you do." He smiles up at him. "You've been protecting me since before I knew it myself, and don't worry about those assholes. Most of them couldn't tie their shoelaces without help, let alone get one up over me. I barely even hear it anymore – it loses its edge after a while. Sometimes I wish they would take the time to think of more creative insults though . . . it would give me more to work with when I construct my acerbic comebacks."

His father snorts at this and wraps him up in a one-armed hug. "I wish I could watch you cut them down. You get that mouth from your mom, you know. She could make a person feel an inch tall in about five seconds."

Kurt grins. "My record is three."

His dad laughs out loud this time. The two of them walk out to the car, still laughing and exchanging jokes, and Kurt finally, truly feels like it's all going to end up being okay. The words hardly hold any meaning anymore – not when he has all this love to counteract them.

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**Author's Note: **The line about a "fag. With a matching bag," is not actually mine. That one belongs to Chris Colfer, and I got it off one of the interviews posted on YouTube. It was actually said in reference to a question about Mercedes being Kurt's fag hag, and Chris' reply was something along the lines of: "He's his own fag hag. With a matching bag." So, thank you to Chris Colfer for that!

_Wouldn't It Be Lovely (_or _Loverly_), is one of my favourite songs from _My Fair Lady._

I'll try to get the last part up sometime this weekend. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

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_Epilogue, or The One Time Kurt Really Lets Someone Have It_

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Kurt is having a really crappy day, the kind that gets progressively worse and worse, and shows no sign of any improvement. The kind that dangles little beacons of hope in your face before cruelly snatching them back and drop kicking you even further down towards rock bottom.

His third favourite sweater had lost a round to a grape slushie. His car, his baby, bore a large silver scratch from some jerk that did not know how to park. He'd switched the dates for two of his assignments and thus, while he had handed in his Spanish essay early, his Shakespeare analysis, worth a good twenty percent of his grade, was going to be late, and penalized for it. His hair was flat, the bangs falling into his eyes, and _damn it_, he'd just run out of hair spray.

There's more to add to that list, but frankly, the more he thinks about it, the more depressed and pissed off he gets, so he just leans against his locker, trying to concentrate on the fact that he just has one more period to go, and then he can head home, bury himself face first in a tub of chocolate Häagen-Dazs, and try his best to blank this day from his memories.

"Kurt!"

He turns to see his best friend and several other gleeks rounding the corner. Mercedes has a bottle of – no, could it be? _Yes it is! _

"Oh God, Mercedes, you are officially my personal saviour." He snatches the hair spray bottle away from her as she grins.

"I know, baby – worship me for the goddess I am."

Tina watches him fix his hair with a certain amount of awe – in less than a minute, it's back to its perfectly coiffed state and he's feeling marginally better. It almost makes the scuff on his brand new leather ankle boots acceptable. Almost.

"I figure with the lousy day you've been having, you're either going to go straight home to swallow your weight in junk food, or head to the mall to buy something worth your weight in credit card debt – either way, I'm in." Mercedes leans against the locker next to his, patting his arm sympathetically.

He nods, closing his eyes. "Yes to the first – but I've already called dibs on the entire tub of chocolate ice cream. You'll have to settle for French vanilla or strawberry."

"The whole tub, huh?" Artie is shaking his head. "Dude, this day really must've blown. The last time you downed that much ice cream was the day that famous designer died."

"Hey!" Mercedes turns to scold. "Alexander McQueen was his _idol_. The last thing he needs is to remember _that_."

Artie shrugs. "Or maybe the memory of a worse day will make this one seem more tolerable?"

Kurt ignores this debate, watching the interaction going on behind it. Puck and Finn were standing at the rear of the group, discussing something rather intently before Puck finally shoves Finn forwards. He looks distinctly like he's facing a firing squad as he walks up to Kurt.

Kurt feels his stomach flip – and not in the crush-worthy way – at the look on Finn's face. He grimaces. "Okay, let's hear it. Whatever it is, at this point, I can handle it. Have Dolce & Gabanna been given the Al Capone treatment for their tax evasion? Have acid wash jeans come back? What is it?"

Finn shoves his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders. "Quinn overheard Karofsky and his group of a-holes talking – they're planning something for you, so, Puck and I, we're gonna be watching your back, 'til after school, 'kay?"

Kurt rolls his eyes for what has to be the hundredth time that day, leaning past Finn to glare over at the so-called stud lingering uncomfortably behind the girls and Artie. "Seriously? This is what you're all wound up about? It's probably just the usual – a barrage of slushies or maybe pee balloons, they haven't done that for a while . . . you guys –"

"Look, Hummel, the last thing I need on my Jewish conscience is your pasty face bruised and bloodied when I could've done something about it." Puck scowls at him. "So shut up and deal."

The bell rings, indicating last warning to get to their final period, and the hall floods with students. Kurt sighs heavily as Puck and Finn do not budge, and the other gleeks watch him with concern, especially Mercedes, who looks as though she's gearing up to join his bodyguard detail.

As Kurt retrieves his books and slams his locker shut, he realizes that it isn't just Mercedes and the two jocks set on following him, but Tina and Artie as well and neither of them is in his last period class. He rolls his eyes again as they all surround him in a completely unsubtle manner, shooting glares or evaluating looks towards the sea of students around them. It does bring a short-lived smile to Kurt's face when Tina stares down the curious onlookers with her best 'I'm a scary Goth, and I eat kitten blood for breakfast' glare, coupled with Mercedes' 'I _will_ take you to the carpet' narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

Once he reaches the door of his class, they disperse, Finn with a quick smile and a promise to meet him here right after the final bell (Puck gives him a stern look, implying he better be there, which leaves Kurt wondering if this horrible day is about to take wild, hairpin turn into an episode of the Twilight Zone because, seriously, _what the hell_?).

So, yes, Kurt actually waits for his 'gleeks in black' to show up, and show up they do – _all_ of them. Even Santana. And Rachel. He stares at her for good long while before she throws her hands up. "Really, Kurt – I'm not to about to let those immature Cro-Magnons get the jump on a fellow Glee clubber. Not with Regionals coming up."

Ah, so all was still right in the universe. That was good to know.

Quinn is biting her lip. "I'm sorry if this all turns out to be nothing, but Karofsky's been getting meaner and . . . you're right, it may turn out be a slushie attack or something, but –"

"Yes, Puck already informed me that you do not wish to have your personal Jiminy Cricket _tsk tsk_ you, don't worry about it," Kurt dismisses easily, allowing them to form ranks again.

He soon regrets it when he notices the stares they garner, especially when Puck almost knocks a member of the baseball team flat on his ass for trying push past the crowd by breaking through Kurt's line of defense. Kurt tells them all to back off as he gets to his locker, and they do, though barely, and Puck is still drawing attention by scowling menacingly and flashing his guns. Kurt knows Puck probably absolutely loves the attention and between him, Santana (who's frosty glares are equally as fierce and intimidating) and Brittany (who must've forgotten the reason for being here, as she's currently waving happily at random people), Kurt wonders despairingly what the hell he did to deserve all of this.

He's opening his locker just as Karofsky and his gang of bullying Neanderthals push their way through the multitude, and suddenly there's a veritable explosion of lace and satin bursting out of Kurt's locker, all over him and the floor, and the clicking of camera phones.

The entire hallway freezes, staring as Kurt, red in the face, knocks some lacy panties off his shoulders. Azimio and Karofsky exchange high fives, the hockey player crowing, "Dude, this is so going up on Jewfro's blog!"

"Little Hummel here is gonna be resident tranny cross-dressing freak by four today!" Azimio snatches another picture as Kurt digs through his locker, ignoring the jeers, feeling the angry flush spread up to his ears and down his neck. A few more unmentionables fall out as he grabs his books, leaving him standing ankle deep in thongs and frilly panties. There's another flash. He closes his eyes momentarily, trying to gather enough strength to push through to the end of this truly _horrifying_ day.

"Real creative, douchebags." Mercedes glares at them, pushing past a shocked Finn, and elbowing by a knuckle-cracking Puck. "What? Did you raid your mommy's drawers for all this?"

"Nah, I don't recognize any of 'em – I would know, considering I've banged _both_ your mothers." Puck smirks at them.

"Ha ha, manwhore, but that joke only works once!" Karofsky spits at him.

"Besides, we didn't do nothing," Azimio announces to the entire corridor. "We just got a tip that queer little Hummel was bringing his prize collection to share with his fellow homos." He leers at Puck, Finn, and even Matt and Mike, who Kurt sees are bristling with anger. "And decided to get some shots as proof!"

"I think the green would be your colour, Puckerman – maybe blue for you, Hudson." Karofsky kicks some of the scattered lingerie their way.

"Right, I'm going to –" Before Puck so much as raises a fist, Kurt inserts himself in-between the two mountains of jocks, pushing both Puck and Finn back, and Matt and Mike by default, who were standing just behind the first two.

"Enough," he grits out, and it echoes in the abrupt silence around them. "Honestly, the last thing I need today is my friends getting pounded into paste – just leave it alone."

"Listen to your girlfriend, pussies." Karofsky sneers. "And maybe the little fag will let you in on the cross-dressing – make a show of it or something."

Kurt's really had it with this day from hell, so when he whips around, fast and smooth enough to make a few people gasp, he barely hears it over the pounding in his head and chest. He has no idea what's about to happen – only that he is madder than he's ever been in his entire _life_.

He walks right up to the two, tall jackasses and their posse, and speaks in a voice as icy as a winter's night, "Say it again, Karofsky."

Karofsky looks down at Kurt with a combination of disgust and hatred, before leaning close and saying, in a perfectly clear and audible tone, "I said that your boyfriends here should listen to you so you'd want to reward them – don't all faggots like having big, manly studs to get down on their knees for?"

Kurt doesn't even give Finn and Puck a chance to rush forward and start a brawl – he does it himself. He's winding up and letting a fist fly, with all his weight behind it, before even_ he_ realizes it. There's a sickening crack, Karofsky goes down, and Kurt lets out a pained shout. He lifts his hand and sees his knuckles are bloody and cut – he must've sliced himself on one of the hockey player's expensive caps. When Karofsky jerks and stumbles up from the ground, Kurt and everyone present are shocked by the gap that now exists in his top row of teeth. He's moaning and leaning against the lockers opposite Kurt, Azimio trying to check out his teeth through all the gushing blood. There's no brawl – it seems the rest of the bullies are too busy trying to compute what they just saw, them and all the other witnesses.

"Holy crap," comes from somewhere up and over Kurt's shoulder – probably Finn.

"Shit, Hummel that was . . ." That was definitely Puck.

Everyone else was pretty much speechless – including Kurt.

Azimio helps Karofsky up, and their group of letter-jackets just stare over at the gleeks, equal parts shock, horror and anger on their faces . . . but still, nobody makes a move and nobody says anything.

Kurt is staring from the blood coating the bully's shirt, to the blood dripping lazily from his hand and he feels hollowed out – the rage has just completely disappeared, leaving him feeling disoriented and empty. He has never resorted to such violence before – ever – and he's reeling, confused as to how he managed to tap into such blind fury. But then he looks up at Puck and Finn, whose jaws are somewhere around their waistline, and he starts to understand his reaction a little more. He squares his shoulders and stares coolly at the surrounding crowd.

"What is going on here?"

The crowd parts and Principal Figgins is on the scene, eyes wide, landing first on the more noticeable spectacle of one of his students, blood all over his shirt, cupping his mouth and eyes teared up in pain. Then he catches sight of Puck and Finn standing opposite the wounded teen, and opens his mouth to no doubt demand an explanation, but before he can, he sees Kurt's bleeding knuckles.

"Mr. Hummel, Mr. Karofsky – follow me."

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In the end, Kurt gets off relatively easily – the fact that he was being harassed for his sexuality has Figgins probably thinking of his last encounter with his dad, therefore two days suspension (which Karofsky also gets), and a notation in his record for fighting is fairly tame. He is also warned that Karofsky's parents may want to pursue assault charges, but Kurt considers that that would involve telling them he got punched out by a boy half his size and weight who's been known to wear corsets to school, and thinks he might be safe in that regard.

His father has to come and get him from school, and this could have been the ultimately atrocious end to this catastrophe of a day, but the flash of pride in his dad's eyes once Figgins explains the situation, and the way he tugs him close as they walk out to the car – that sort of makes the whole thing worth it. The punching thing. Not the scuff on his boots, the loss of his sweater and now, the blood on his pants . . . but it was a start at least.

They reach the parking lot and see all his fellow Glee members are gathered around his SUV, chatting. Kurt furrows his brow. "Uh, why are you guys still here? The threat has been eliminated, and my dad's going to escort me home."

"Hi Mr. Hummel." Tina waves before turning to Kurt. "Well, Mercedes said she was going over to your place to pig out on ice cream with you, and I kinda wanted in on that."

"And, uh, well, we just want to make sure you were okay?" Finn asks uncertainly, shuffling his feet.

"It is entirely possible that there will be some sort of vengeance for this," Rachel announces. "And while your father does appear to be formidable, there is strength in numbers."

"And Brittany says you have, like, a 55 inch TV in your house, and there's a game on tonight." Puck is leaning against the SUV.

"And, we're your friends, Kurt, and you've had a lousy day, and now it's time to go home, and get hopped up on sugar and forget about it." Mercedes walks over, giving him a warm hug before pulling back.

"Not to mention potentially plot for further retaliation because there will be more trouble once this goes up on the blogosphere," Artie adds, and then ducks as Tina tries to smack him for bringing it up. "But, I think the fact that you flattened a jock with one blow will totally take over any reference to you being a closet cross-dresser with a fetish for women's underwear. Ow!"

Kurt's looking over at everyone, who either smiles or smirks back and no, he is _not_ tearing up at this gesture. He is _not_. He's just tired and emotionally wrung out. And his hand is still really throbbing. He glances up at this father, who's looking bemusedly over at the rag tag group of teens before meeting eyes with his son.

"It's fine with me, Kurt. Whaddaya say we swing by the supermarket, pick up some more ice cream, and chips and soda? Make a party out of it."

There's some enthusiastic agreement from the eleven other teenagers and Kurt nods, swallowing hard.

Everyone starts piling into cars – either Kurt's or his father's, or Mike's, it seems. While all this is going on, and various people are shouting 'shotgun!', his dad pulls him a little further from the crowd.

"Kurt, I just want you to know that I'm real proud that you stood up for yourself – but, I mean, you've always been so good about not letting them get to you –"

"I know, and I'm fine, dad." Kurt smiles genuinely. "I was having a bad day, and I snapped. I promise that's all it was. And . . . it doesn't get to me anymore. Especially considering who I get it from. Like I'm going to take anything personally from a selection of missing links who don't even know the difference between plaid and paisley."

His dad blinks a little, probably considering that he himself has no clue what the difference is, and Kurt just laughs. "Dad, seriously. It's _fine_. I have _you_, and I have those insane people over there . . ." He trails off, glancing over at his friends, who are engaged in _rock, paper, scissors_ contests over the shotgun issue, and he smirks at the image of Karofsky going down.

When he faces his father again, that proud light is back in the man's eyes, and there's some nodding, and some neck rubbing before his dad, smirking a little himself, says, "I never thought I'd see the day you'd actually use the right hook I taught you."

Kurt holds back his billionth eye roll. "Yes, yes. 'I am man, hear me roar.' My hand really hurts by the way – you never mentioned that in your lessons." He holds up the hand that was disinfected and bandaged by the school nurse – he is beyond grateful that stitches were not needed, but now he has to find a way to coordinate the bandage with his wardrobe, and that was going to be a challenge.

"I said it would sting a bit," his dad protests. "But I also never thought you'd full on knock someone's teeth out. And damn kiddo, I'm real impressed."

Kurt scoffs, but there's warmth spreading all the way down to his fingertips and toes. His father shoots him a side-glance as they start walking back towards the cars. "But, uh, Kurt, I have to tell you – I don't want you thinking that throwing a punch is the best way to solve _all_ your problems –"

"Dad, really? Are you expecting me to start brandishing brass knuckles and taking away their lunch money?"

His dad grins. "I know, I know. Sometimes you make this parenting thing a little too easy – good student, almost perfect attendance record. Now you're in trouble, for once, and I had to say something – fulfill my fatherly duty, you know?"

"Consider it fulfilled." Kurt nudges him with a shoulder as they walk to their respective vehicles. "And thanks for letting my friends come over."

Burt nudges him back. "No thanks needed – just uh, warn me if you're gonna break out the unitards." Kurt takes a minute to picture the rest of the Glee boys in unitards and doesn't know whether to crack up or blush. No, wait, definitely crack up. Just the same, he files the idea away for a later date. "And you all can do whatever you want unless it involves fire, alcohol or drugs."

Kurt nods seriously. "Agreed." He makes a mental note to hide the matches from Puck. And any potential accelerants.

"And, if you want to, you can hang out at the garage with me during your two days suspension. Like part of your punishment, but I can pay you for it and –"

"Dad, consider me free labour." Kurt grins. "But I get to bring my iPod speakers over and listen to my music. Loud."

"You leave out that Gaga chick and it's a deal," his father agrees, and Kurt _finally_ feels his day looking up.

It isn't until he's laughing to the point of tears watching Tina and Brittany determinedly trying to teach Puck and Finn the dance moves to Shakira's _Hips Don't Lie_ (which Mike and Matt got down after only a few tries and were now sitting back, pointing and catcalling, while Puck gives them the finger, still dancing), Artie sneakily taping it with his camera phone, and Rachel demanding that they try and sneak in some actual practice while they're at it, that Kurt realizes that he hasn't once thought of what Karofsky said to him.

Mercedes is choking on her ice cream, Santana is trying to look disdainful of it all, but failing miserably, and Brittany is tying a couple of Kurt's older scarves (that he gleefully provides since they were going to Goodwill anyway) around the two boys' hips, over their jeans, in lieu of actual hip skirts. Kurt finally has enough of watching their pathetic lumbering and takes the lead on the lesson, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes as he gets into position. Everyone joins in, Rachel giving up, grabbing a scarf for her own hips and assisting Quinn in tying hers beneath her belly. Artie is cheering loudly, singing the male vocal parts and taping it all openly now. When Kurt's father walks into the living room, catching sight of the craziness, all he does is walk on into the kitchen to grab a drink, and then come back. He leans against the wall and watches it all unfold with a fond smile on his face.

Kurt thinks he will never be so happy as he is right this second, in this town, in this house, being his fabulous self with these equally fantastic gleeks and his epically awesome father.

There would be more days like the one he just had, and worse people than Karofsky to deal with – but he's never cared less about the insults and slurs he knows he's going to have to face. And they've never held less meaning than they do, in this moment, with all of this laughter surrounding him.

But the next time someone involves either his friends or his family in their little hateful diatribes – his father would just have to understand . . . because Kurt was totally taking them down. Maybe it was time to invest in a set of brass knuckles, just in case . . . he definitely owned a jacket or two that would match incredibly well . . . and you could surely get them in various colours . . .

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**Author's Note: ***sigh* It's done. I'm sorry for any lateness, the editing/proofing took forever. And I think I had too much fun socking Karofsky in the mouth, via Kurt :)

In regards to Kurt's punishment, I know someone who works in the school system, and I asked what would be one of the most realistically lenient punishments for something like that. Mind you, I live in Canada, and I couldn't find anything about the consequences for fighting in Ohio schools, in my, admittedly, limited research.

I hope you all enjoyed this, and thank you for reading. Reviews, comments and critiques are welcome!


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